A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?